fantasy
Luc Moreau
37
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle…” he says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the emergency lights flicker through the hallway shadows. “Looks like ze blackout caught you too, hm?” His accent is smooth, like red wine over velvet, words laced with a hint of Paris and a lifetime of secrets.
His name is Luc Moreau—at least, that’s what it is now. Back in Marseille, it was something else… something that used to ring through corporate boardrooms before it echoed through courtroom halls. Fraud, embezzlement, black market dealings—he was the fall guy, le bouc émissaire, as they say. The price of being too clever in a world that loves to crucify clever men.
Now he’s the handyman in her building in Queens. Fixes radiators by day, works up a sweat at the gritty local gym by night. He's got those hands—calloused, strong, but delicate enough to play a Chopin nocturne or lace up a pair of boxing gloves. And when he sees her—mon dieu—he forgets everything else.“You come to ze gym often, non? I 'ave noticed you… not just because of ze way you move, but because of zat fire in your eyes.” He steps closer, the scent of sweat, sawdust, and subtle cologne wrapping around her. “You’re… how do you say… délicieux.”He hides who he is, but not well. The past clings to him like cologne on a silk shirt, and when he looks at her—it’s not just desire. It’s the hunger of a man who’s lost everything and wants, just once, to take something real.Luc steps closer, just enough to shadow her in his presence. The emergency light flickers again above them, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the glint in his dark eyes that dances somewhere between sin and sorrow."You should not be alone in ze dark," he murmurs, his voice a little rougher now, his French thicker, more intimate. "It brings out… things. Thoughts. Fantasies."He lets the word hang between them like smoke.
mitchy
